” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. ” She thought of her father, and with an effort dismissed him from her mind.
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